Yesterday evening I stood to attention. I was alone in my flat: I had just got in from having a beer with Dom in Kidbrooke, and had just turned the TV on. Earlier in the day, of course, I had seen the reports of the queen’s deteriorating health, and was eager for an update. It was 6.30, and almost as soon as I had turned it on the news broke away and started to play the National Anthem. I could tell what had happened.

I stood up straight. I’m not really a patriot, of course, but when I was young I used to go to the scouts, where I was taught to salute the Union Jack and stand for the National Anthem. I hadn’t done either since then, but yesterday evening I felt compelled to. Elisabeth II, our country’s longest reigning monarch, had passed away. As many are now saying, for seventy years she had been a constant in an ever-changing world; most of us can’t remember a time when she wasn’t the queen. She was crowned before either of my parents were born.

I find that quite, quite amazing. Say what you will about monarchy, the Queen deserved our respect: she was a kind of mother-figure for us all. Now she is gone, it feels like the country is suddenly in a state of flux, as if part of the firm bedrock upon which society is built has suddenly crumbled away and nobody knows what will happen next. Of course, life will go on. For most of us, life will go on: I’ll soon have my coffee and breakfast, and life will continue as normal. Yet a figure which had always been there throughout our lives now isn’t, leaving a strange absence which you can’t help feeling, like when one of your grandparents, who you rarely met but who you nonetheless feel attached to, dies.

I think the best thing I can do is direct everyone here, to a BBC retrospective film about the Queen’s long, remarkable reign, and wish you all a good day.